


Missing From Me

by parisian_girl



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 00:03:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14556495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parisian_girl/pseuds/parisian_girl
Summary: Ten thousand miles apart, both Phryne and Jack do some soul-searching.Otherwise known as the reunion fic without the actual reunion....but hey, there's Paris :).





	Missing From Me

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments on my last fic - it gave me the confidence (for better or worse!) to post this one. Hope you enjoy! As always, feedback is welcome :).

“And don’t you dare leave this room”.

Phryne adjusted her hat in the gold-edged mirror with a more violent flourish than was necessary, and turned to fix her father with the sternest look she could muster. She was exhausted. More than exhausted. She was bone-deep weary, and she didn’t have the energy to make her point any more forcefully. Her only consolation was that her father was in a worse state than she was. Initially, she had been pleased to find that flying did not agree with him; it had made him slightly more amenable. But as days and weeks, miles and countries wore on, she had grown tired of babysitting. The long journey from Melbourne to London was arduous enough without having what felt like an overgrown toddler in the front seat.

“Understood?”

The Baron’s nod was almost lost in his enormous yawn.  He collapsed dramatically back against the pillows, closing his eyes and stretching his arms above his head, and flapped his hand in what Phryne assumed was a wave goodbye.

 _“Mais oui_ , my dear. Whatever you say”.

Phryne wrinkled her nose.

“The bathroom is an exception to that rule. Feel free to take a shower”.

Before her father could respond – “ _Well, it’s not my fault I’ve been crammed into a tin can with wings for weeks_ ”, “ _In case you hadn’t noticed, the amenities at ten thousand feet are not what one is used to_ ”, or her personal favourite, “ _I’m on strike_ ”, to which she would always retort that he never did anything except complain anyway, and the stink wouldn’t make them get there any faster – she picked up her clutch bag and sashayed over to the hotel room door. _His_ hotel room door. Hers, thank goodness, was at the other end of the corridor.

“I’ll check on you later”.

But her only answer was a gentle snore.

*

The cool evening air was damp on Phryne’s face, and she wrapped her coat more tightly around her as she walked. She didn’t have a destination. She knew from experience that Paris was a spontaneous lover, much like herself, and since theirs would only be a short dance this time – she hoped – she had not made any plans for her evening. After giving instructions to the receptionist and to the concierge that her father was under no circumstances to be allowed out (she took a kind of perverse satisfaction in telling them that he was susceptible to delirium and couldn't be trusted to leave on his own), she just turned left out of the hotel entrance and kept going, without really having much of an idea where she would end up. Her usual pastimes of dancing and drinking and flirting would have been perfect in this vibrant city, where one street held as many distractions as the whole of Melbourne, but somehow she just wasn't in the mood.

Just tired? Maybe. Frustrated? Almost certainly. The delay in France - so tantalisingly close to London! - while her plane underwent some emergency TLC and repair work was unplanned, unwanted and unwelcome, especially after earlier delays in Jakarta and Yemen . She knew that Gerard would do the best he could, and if it wasn't fixable then at least she now had other feasible options. She was desperate to get both her and her father across the Channel to London in one piece so that she could start thinking about what to do next, and if she had to walk to the sea and then row them to Dover she would do it. As she crossed the Boulevard St Germain, letting the sudden tide of pedestrians and cyclists and honking cars swirl around her and carry her along, she mused that it could have been far worse. Gerard’s farm was at least close to Paris, and she had managed to coax the plane that far. She could have been marooned in a tiny French village and, with her father in tow, that was simply unthinkable.

But as she walked, each step taking her deeper and deeper into the heart of the Left Bank and further away from the hustle of the main thoroughfare, she found her steps slowing and the memories seeping back, and she knew that her apathy wasn’t just down to tiredness or frustration. In the beginning, when things had been different, she and René had tripped rather than walked through this gate into the Jardin du Luxembourg, laughing and drinking and stopping every few paces to kiss, because the war was over and they were alive and they had to live for all those people who hadn't made it back. So many afternoons by the fountains, with wine that she was sure René must have got from the black market, before the hazy days merged into colourful nights in the bars that didn't ever really seem to end, but just merged gradually into the next afternoon of wine, and painting, and the sensual pleasures of another human being. Seamless. And Paris had always been colourful. Despite the destruction of the war, and the bloody memories that France would always hold for her and for so many others, the city had been a salve; beaten and bruised and scarred, but with a heart that still beat with glamour and exhilaration and just _life,_  and she had dived right in, recognising a kindred spirit when she saw one. But René…..René had turned it grey, and as much as she hated him for what he had done to her, she didn’t think she would ever forgive him for tainting the city that had, in many ways, been her saviour.

Now the battle scars were less obvious, for both of them, but in many ways the place hadn’t changed. As she strolled the dusky streets that bordered the gardens and led her down to Montparnasse, electric lights flickered instead of candles, and she could tell from the handwritten menu boards of the cafes that rationing was a thing of the past. But the air still carried the heady scents of garlic and meat and bread and wine. As she neared the Rue Vavin, every open door brought a different rhythm to her ears, enticing her with a potent cocktail of jazz and smoke and bursts of laughter, and she could only resist for so long.

The distinctive red awning of the café was like a siren call from across the busy boulevard ahead of her and she stopped, ignoring the jostle of other pedestrians and the honking of a car that warned her not to step out. So many nights here. So many times she would have stood on this very spot and not looked, not noticed, not thought twice. Yet now her senses were absorbing everything, right down to the paper tissue that blew across the road in the breeze and wrapped itself around the lamppost that stood proudly next to her, overseeing the comings and goings around the junction. A few more steps and she could smell the wine tinged with the harsh scent of anise - this was Le Rotonde, after all, and every hour was the green hour despite absinthe being banned before the war - and roasting coffee. Proper coffee this time, not the powdered stuff they had had to endure before. She could feel the heat, hear the raised voices and laughter and passionate debates that had always filled the scratched and worn leather seats, and now her stride became purposeful. After Murdoch Foyle, she had come to believe that the only way to conquer fear was to face it, and suddenly she realised that this fear had haunted her too long.

There were, of course, some exceptions to that rule. She didn’t have any intention of facing down a spider anytime soon.

*

The whisky was rough. It burned her throat as it went down like hot sandpaper, and the instinctive memory of hot hands around her throat made her gasp. No one heard her above the noise. She had fielded the stares and the flirtatious comments and the offers of cocktails and dances to carve out her own little space at the bar - the place was heaving, and there were no tables. Snatches of conversation reached her ears over the general din, and she caught names that usually she would have been keen to either reacquaint herself with or be introduced to… _Pablo…..Amedeo…..Georges_... The paintings and drawings that littered the walls were testament to the fact that the cafe was a second home to many of them, their bills often paid in art. Pierre Sarcelle, she remembered, had sometimes done the same thing when times were hard and he had paints but no money. He had introduced her to so many people…and God only knew she would need the distraction of company while she was here, otherwise her father might never make it to London at all. But tonight her memories needed to be hers alone, and she signalled for another drink.

She had never drunk whisky outside of her own parlour before. Cocktails were her choice when out dancing. She found, though, that the smoky amber liquid also brought with it another memory. A different place, a different time. Different hands. The flicker of firelight, and a half-smile that always seemed to make her insides melt.

She had tried so hard not to think about him. She had tried her best not to take the memory of his kiss, his arms around her, his voice, because if she did she knew she would crack. Flying with her father was hard enough without the constant torments of what-ifs and regrets and wondering, and Phryne Fisher, she thought with a resolute thump of whisky tumbler on wood, did not crack. Phryne Fisher, come to that, did not take any man with her anywhere. After René, she had trained herself well. Loving and leaving was what she did best, and when it was time to move on (which was usually, if she was honest, the morning after the night before), she did so with style, grace, and not a shred of regret. And this should have been no different. A kiss on an airfield, a challenge thrown out in the heat of the moment… _come after me_ ….and the certainty afterwards that it hadn’t meant anything to him. How could it? She couldn’t be what he wanted.

She had avoided thinking about what it meant to her.

Yet that hadn’t stopped him stealing up on her when she least expected it, and at the most inconvenient moments. She still felt sorry for the gorgeous young man she had taken back to the hotel in Naples, unceremoniously left to fend for himself when she realised that all she wanted to hear was her name on someone else’s lips. It hadn’t stopped her dreaming about that kiss and waking up hot, and bothered, and horribly frustrated that her own fingers didn’t even seem to take the edge off. It hadn’t stopped her replaying those words over and over - “ _come after me_ ” - and fantasising about him actually doing it.

She took a deep swallow of her drink, and grimaced as it went down. Every time she saw a fedora on the street, she had to look twice. Every long overcoat, every well-built man with dark hair. _Every damn time_. Another swallow. Every new country that should have been exciting and enthralling, even with the Baron to deal with, had just left her feeling empty. With each passing mile, she had felt like a little piece of her was being left behind, and now….

Another swallow, one that burned like fire as the realisation hit her square in the gut, and she slowly put her glass down.

Despite all her lovers, despite all her experience with men in and out of the boudoir, she had made herself untouchable. She had been so determined never to be tied down, suffocated, used like that again. Yet somehow, although he had barely laid a finger on her, Jack Robinson had shattered her.

 _Damn him_.

Downing the rest of the whisky, she pushed back her stool, grabbed her purse, and headed for the cloakroom to retrieve her coat. She had something she needed to do.

 

*****************************

 

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson had never had any real feelings for his office. City South Police Station in general was not a place that he had ever associated with anything other than drunks, thieves, pimps, the occasional murderer, and his colleagues, and he had always been determined not to bring his feelings towards any of them onto the job. Seeing the backside of human existence day in and day out - and he was including some of his fellow officers in that - was hard enough without emotion clouding the picture, and he had never seen any reason to exclude the furniture from that rule. His office was simply his office.

Tonight, though, he was having a hard time leaving it.

The station was empty apart from himself and the duty Constable. Collins had long since gone, with a cheery wave and a promise to bring him some of the new Mrs Collins’ homemade biscuits tomorrow, and there had been no phone calls. No one crashing through the station entrance with an emergency. No high heels clicking their way purposefully up the steps and through his door. No distractions perched on the edge of his desk, and no French perfume wafting under his nose. No banter, or flirting, or pouting red lips. And therein lay the problem.

Everything in his office now reminded him of her. The drab, institutional room exuded her warmth in a way that his own bungalow could never do, simply because she had never been there - a circumstance he now regretted, since drinking whisky alone in his kitchen was far more comfortable, and possibly more socially acceptable (although he wasn't sure on that particular point) than drinking it alone in his office at midnight, and he frowned as he poured another generous inch. Rosie had always said _that woman_ was bad for him. Certainly her point would be proved if she saw him now.

He felt the familiar pang of guilt as he thought about his ex-wife, but he noticed that it didn’t linger like it used to. Some fears just had to be faced, and he had looked his square in the eye that day in the court room when he had lied in order to give Rosie the freedom she wanted and deserved. He had not been the man she needed for a long time, not since he had come back from the war. He had been a different person to the man she had married and he knew that she blamed him. She had never said so, but he knew. He had seen it in her eyes. And he had lived through moments - dark moments that he never wanted to experience again - when he had thought she might have been justified. After all, she hadn’t asked for it. She had done everything in her power for him not to go, and he had even received his exemption on the grounds that his skills and experience as Senior Constable were needed on the home front. It had, he knew, come straight from her father. But he had gone anyway, and he had paid the price.

On that day, divorce had felt like the ultimate admission of failure, and after the war - after he had watched so many of his comrades and friends slaughtered and hadn't been able to lift a finger - Jack Robinson had sworn he would never fail again, not if he could help it. And mostly, with a quiet, dogged determination, he had kept his word. Until Rosie had asked him to let her go in the most final way possible.

Until he had stood, alone on an airfield, and watched a plane fly off into the distance without doing anything to stop it.

In the weeks that followed, he had told himself that the challenge she had thrown out in the heat of the moment - _come after me, Jack Robinson_ \- was just that, a throwaway romantic gesture that she would have forgotten about by the next day. Loving and leaving was, after all, what she did best. He was fairly sure that it hadn’t meant anything to her, and besides, he couldn’t be what she wanted. But that hadn’t stopped him thinking about her hand in his, and his lips on hers. It hadn’t stopped him replaying that kiss over and over again, sometimes at the most inappropriate moments - the luncheon given by Aunt Prudence in aid of the Constabulary Retirement Fund probably hadn’t been the best time to daydream. It hadn’t stopped him thinking about those words… _come after me_ ….and fantasising about actually doing it. What would her reaction be, he had wondered? What would it be like?

What did she actually want? He had never even asked her that. He had just assumed.

He turned the telegram over in one hand, lifting the tumbler of whisky slowly to his lips with the other. He didn’t need to read it again, he knew it off by heart. The first one she had sent him since she had left. The first news that hadn’t been secondhand from Mac, or thirdhand from Collins via Dot. He had seen the questions in their eyes, particularly Mac, and he knew he would be eternally grateful to them all for not asking questions that he didn’t have the answers to. But now, here it was, and the impersonal, typed words on the flimsy paper had brought her hurtling back into his office, all black hair and red lipstick and sparkling eyes and French perfume, with a vitality and a force that had taken his breath away.

DELAYED IN PARIS STOP NO ETA FOR LONDON STOP WILL UPDATE SOON STOP HPF PS TU ME MANQUES

He hadn’t needed to look it up. He remembered enough French. He just hadn't been prepared for what those words would do to him, and so many emotions had crashed through him at once that he had just sat, staring at the telegram, hearing her voice utter the short, clipped message over and over and over again. It had taken Collins’ cheery goodbye and the first whisky for it to start slowly dawning on him.

 _Tu me manques_.

I miss you.

You are missing from me.

In his desperate quest not to fail, not to let anyone down again, he had shut himself off. He had locked himself up and thrown away the key, and focused on simply getting through each day and doing the best he could. No wonder Rosie had wanted a divorce. He had been untouchable. Yet somehow, Phryne Fisher had shattered him and his carefully ordered life, and he knew the colours of his world would never be the same again.

 _Damn her_.

Throwing the last of the whisky down his throat, grimacing as it burned, he grabbed the telegram, his hat and his coat, and headed for the door.

 

  
******************************

 

Phryne held the telegram in one hand and her coffee in the other, sipping on one whilst turning the other over and over, slowly and methodically, as an equally slow smile spread across her lips. The buzz of the café hummed around her, but she didn't notice it. All she heard was a deep voice - a voice that sent the most delicious shivers down her spine - uttering the words that had made her heart jump into her throat.

YOU COULD HAVE SAID THAT BEFORE STOP TRY TO STAY IN ONE PLACE LONG ENOUGH FOR ME TO FIND YOU STOP JR

She had known instantly what he meant. _Tu me manques_. She had told him she missed him - no, she had told him he was missing from her. That without him she was finding it hard to function properly, that when they weren’t together it was like she was missing an arm, or a leg. Or, she thought wryly, her lipstick. _Just as bad_.

Her reply, fired straight back before either of them could think about it too long and change their minds, had been unequivocal.

IS THAT A ROMANTIC OVERTURE QUERY IF SO MUCH IMPROVED STOP WILL GET RID OF BARON TO LONDON AND AWAIT YOUR ARRIVAL STOP HPF PS HURRY UP

Two hours later and ten thousand miles away, Jack Robinson smiled as he sent his reply.

BUY A TELESCOPE STOP IT’LL KEEP YOU ENTERTAINED STOP JR PS THE STARS MIGHT LOOK DIFFERENT IN PARIS BUT THE MOON IS THE SAME

Five minutes later he sent another one, ignoring the cost and his pounding heart, before heading home. He had a boat ticket to book and a suitcase to pack.

 _PPS_ …. _tu me manques_.

**Author's Note:**

> "Tu me manques" does literally mean "you are missing from me" - which I think is a much nicer way of saying it than in English! 
> 
> La Rotonde is a café in Montparnasse, Paris, which opened at the end of the 19th century and is still going. After WW1 it was famous for its clientele of artists, writers, and intellectuals - including Pablo Picasso, Amedeo Modigliani and Georges Braque :). Given the circles Phryne moved in, I figured it wasn't impossible that she would have either met them before or would have heard of them and wanted to meet them. And they really did pay for their bills in art :).


End file.
